They taped up the windows in our local pub when Concorde first
flew in the late Sixties. The mysterious sonic boom was the subject of
fevered speculation and lurid newspaper graphics. Would it smash the
nearby greenhouses of Efford horticultural research station, or split
the sails of yachts in The Solent, or even burst our eardrums? Every
car backfire or distant thunderclap would have us staring fearfully
into menacing skies. Was that “The Boom”?

I missed Concorde’s first commercial flight in 1976, but not the
controversy. Even the gallic “e” at the end of its name. “For
Excellency, England, Europe and Entente,” said Tony Benn,
diplomatically adding “and Ecosse,” when confronted by an irate
Scotsman. Cost overruns, perfidious French partners, those pitiless
Gerald Scarfe cartoons of Ted Heath with the aeroplane’s famous
dipping nose; was Concorde a source of national pride or a lame duck?

But being lucky enough to fly in Concorde 30 years later, I simply
fell in love with this dart-like machine, which becomes more
extraordinary the more you learn.

Top speed 1,354mph, flying on the edge of space, with the earth’s
curvature clearly visible. So fast that air friction would heat its
hiduminium (high-duty aluminium alloy) skin and the aircraft would
grow by six inches. The pilots could push the flight engineer’s cap
into the gap between the bulkhead and his instrument panel – by the
time they landed, the airframe had shrunk and the cap was stuck fast.
The floor fizzed with energy as the reheat was engaged on the four
Rolls-Royce/Snecma Olympus turbojets. Over the Atlantic, I accepted a
glass of London Pride from the air hostess and looked out of the tiny
window. “This is the only place you can have a pint at Mach 2 without
a g-suit and an oxygen mask,” said the grinning captain during his
cabin walkabout.

Concorde could fly at twice the speed of sound and on the edge of space / Photo: NewsCast

What the captain didn’t say was how cramped his flight deck was. Or
how his feet struggled through the gap twixt seat and instrument
console. How the claustrophobic design was straight out of military
jets, nor how afterburner switches would tear your nails as you tugged
them while Concorde champed against its brakes at the end of the runway.

I know this now, though, because I am sitting in Concorde’s
captain’s seat, nursing bruised fingers as my co-pilot chants the
litany of pre-flight checks. “Landing lights are on, transponder to
talk to air traffic control is set, wheel light for overheated brakes
is not illuminated, master warning has no lights on, take-off monitors
are on and OK, pitch index set to 17.5 degrees, radar is on…”

Co-pilot? That’ll be Captain Mike Bannister, chief Concorde pilot
and owner of the sauciest laugh that ever escaped a man with gold
braid on his sleeves. It was Captain Bannister who piloted Concorde at
300ft up The Mall in formation with the Red Arrows in 2002 for the
Queen’s Golden Jubilee. “I could see Her Majesty standing on the
balcony,” he says. “It was astoundingly emotional.”

We are in the Concorde simulator, part of Brooklands Museum's
Concorde Experience, including its own Concorde, G-BBDG. More
than 30 per cent of the aircraft, including the tail assembly, was
made at Brooklands and the original agreement to build the aircraft
was signed there.

Flying Concorde can be a nerve-racking experience, even when you're in a simulator / Photo: Mike Crowley

This is a real Concorde flight deck, turned into a simulator by
Link-Miles, with electrical systems from Redifon Flight Simulation. It
cost about £3 million, went into service in 1975 and was originally
perched on six hydraulic jacks, which simulated pitch, roll, yaw,
heave, sway and surge. The vision system received a £3 million revamp
in 1987, with a convex mirror giving pilots 165 degrees of vision.
Over 28 years, 134 British Airways pilots and 57 flight engineers were
trained on the simulator, with a full course lasting 76 hours.

It was based at Filton near Bristol, and in 2003, when it was
donated to Brooklands, they had to cut it in half to get it out of the
building. Rebuilding it and getting it operational has been a massive
undertaking involving Brooklands volunteers, the University of Surrey,
the Engineering and Physical Sciences Council and XPI Simulation Ltd.

“Everything in here is real,” says Bannister, “it’s not made to look
like the real thing, it is the real thing.” He also says it flies like
the real thing, too, and that, where once the simulator’s operating
computers occupied three rooms, it’s now run by three laptops.

We are now accelerating down the runway at Heathrow, where British
Airways Concordes were based, me concentrating so hard my knuckles are
white on the steering yoke. Bannister continues to instruct: “The
engines are spooling up, we’re moving already, little bit of rudder to
keep us on the centre line, air speed building, 100 knots, V1 so hand
back on the control and rotate…”

I pull the stick back and we’re in the air.

British Airways Concordes were based at Heathrow Airport / Photo: Reuters

“Physically, flying it was like a sports car compared with a truck,”
says Bannister. “It was precise and a rewarding aircraft to fly and
you could fly it with your fingertips; we didn’t because it has a very
efficient autopilot. Mentally it was demanding because it was a
complex aircraft, you had a lot to do and half the time to do it in.”

And we all know the history. After the terrible crash of Air France
Concorde Flight 4590 in July 2000, there followed a year-long accident
inquiry, which resulted in a massive development programme and refit
to improve tyre and fuel-tank safety. Concorde flew again in November
2001, but in April 2002 Air France and British Airways announced they
were withdrawing the service. It was controversial, but the last
official flight took place 10 years ago with three Concorde aircraft
circling London. Bannister was at the controls of the last one to
touch down at Heathrow.

The remaining aircraft were drained of their special hydraulic
fluids and fuel, their certificates of airworthiness were surrendered,
as was the Type Certificate for engineering support from Airbus
Industries in Toulouse. No one could now fly or maintain a Concorde.
Richard Branson said it was a swizz but Bannister, who petitioned to
maintain Concorde’s service, says there were good reasons for not
doing so – mainly the exorbitant maintenance costs. He was part of the
team that decommissioned the fleet and invited organisations to bid to
“host” a Concorde, for BA still owns its defunct supersonic aircraft.

All of the controls in the Concorde simulator are real, not simply made to look real / Photo: Mike Crowley

The Olympuses roar us over Kent, accelerating us up to 800mph, then
Bannister asks me to make a gentle banking turn through 180 degrees to
head east up the Thames. We’re now headed for Tower Bridge. We’re not
going to… are we?

So could Concorde fly again? There are a few who say it could, but
while Bannister says he’d be the first to applaud such a project, he
thinks the hurdles are insurmountable. Even Dr Robert Pleming, the
chief executive of the Vulcan to the Sky trust, which restored and
maintains the last airworthy Vulcan bomber, says it’s high unlikely.

Both men list the virtual impossibility of getting through the
Certificate of Airworthiness regularity framework and rebuilding every
single system on the aircraft, sourcing its unique lubricants and
hydraulic fluids, let alone trying to reassemble Concorde’s band of
skilled engineers.

“The certificate of airworthiness would require the original
designers on board if the Civil Aviation Authority were ever to say
yes, and since Airbus has effectively said, 'Over our dead body’, it
would be highly unlikely,” says Pleming.

“Ah yes, the people who say it should fly again,” says Gerald
Ramshaw, Brooklands’ Concorde operations administrator. “It reminds me
of Shakespeare’s Henry IV Part One, where Glendower says, 'I can call
spirits from the vasty deep,’ and Hotspur replies: 'Why, so can I… but
will they come?’.” They’re a literary lot at Brooklands.

Back in the simulator, we’re coming in low, sending children and
animals running, virtually flying on ground effect, with the Olympuses
choking on their own turbulence. There’s HMS Belfast, the span of
Tower Bridge. My eyes are on stalks trying to keep straight and level
as every flight system flashes dire warnings. Waaarooooofff! We’re
through the gap and the afterburners flash as 152,200 pounds of force
lifts us towards the heavens. Blimey, I’ve just flown under Tower Bridge.

“That would have landed me in a lot of trouble if it had been real,”
grins Bannister.

Yet, in some ways, the simulator is more real than the mournful real
planes, dispersed around the world as reminders of the 75,000 or so
ingenious, brilliant and dedicated people who worked on the Concorde
supersonic project. The simulator adds movement, noise and life to the
extent that even though they’ve dispensed with the hydraulic jacks,
it’s not just emotionally moving. As I walked out of the door, my legs
were rolling like those of a sailor just back on shore.

Bannister laughed like a pirate, then moved into the pilot’s seat
and set course for San Francisco.